Dies Irae
by snarkhunter
Summary: "Weeping may endureth for the night," but joy doesn't always come with the morning.


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Title: Dies Irae

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Disclaimer: HA!

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Summary: Here it is, folks. The obligatory "Claire dies and people are sad" fic. Everyone's got to do at least one.

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Note: This story exists in the same universe as "The Cold Light of Dawn." It is not necessary to have read that story to understand this one, but I would recommend that you do so anyway. 

Further author's notes at the end.

***

First Movement:

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Oro supplex et acclinis,

cor contritum quasi cinis,

gere curam mei finis.

The last thing she ever really saw was light.

One minute, she was listening to the cop beside her, touched and amused by his inebriated confession. "It wouldn't be so bad. If you were my kid."

Then, nothing but bright light in her eyes, and in that moment, she saw herself. It was one of her favorite memories: she and Jack, slow dancing in the silence of her darkened living room. The memory had always been a comforting one, but as she watched, she felt a whisper of sorrow for the loss of the easy trust of their earlier relationship.

Then, the light, and for a fraction of a second she thought she saw Lennie reeling outside of a totaled car, its unconscious driver barely recognizable beneath her wounds.

Finally, in that bizarre disjunction of time that was her death, she felt the impact. And then, nothing more.

*

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Second Movement:

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Lacrimosa dies illa,

qua resurget ex favilla

judicandus homo reus -

Huic ergo parce, Deus.

Mike Logan was jarred out of a dead sleep by the ringing of the phone beside the bed. He rolled over and grabbed the receiver.

"Logan," he muttered, still half-asleep.

"Mike, it's Lennie."

Logan sat up, instantly awake, and glad that he was sleeping alone tonight. "Lennie, what's going on? What time is it?"

His former partner's voice sounded exhausted, and his words were slightly slurred. But that wasn't what had jerked Logan out of his stupor. It was the note of desperation behind Lennie's words. 

Logan listened with growing horror as Lennie spoke, and when the older man was finished, he said, "I'll be there as soon as I can."

He placed the receiver carefully back in the cradle and closed his eyes against the shock of reality. For a moment, he sat in a stricken silence, remembering how she had looked when he last saw her alive, her professional veneer cracked and her face weary, but still so beautiful. 

Unbidden, the memory of her writhing beneath him as his hands mapped her smooth skin rose to his mind. Clenching his jaw, Logan pushed the memory aside and started to get dressed. Lennie needed him; no one could help Claire any more.

*

By the time he arrived at the scene of the accident, the other driver—uninjured, of course, in keeping with Fate's usual twisted irony—had already been arrested and taken away in a squad car. It was for the best, Logan thought as he watched them lift a sheet-covered body into the morgue van. If the driver had been there, there would have been no restraining Logan from killing him with his bare hands.

Lennie was sitting in the back of an ambulance, looking rather lost.

"Lennie," Mike said gently. 

"She shouldn't'a been here, Mike," Lennie said, his voice cracking. "I screwed up. She gave me a ride home…she shouldn't'a been here."

As he stepped closer to his former partner, Mike could smell the alcohol on him. 

"You been drinking?" Mike said. 

Lennie just bowed his head, and Mike felt as though he could actually see the burden of guilt that his friend would now carry. He placed on hand on Lennie's shoulder and squeezed it slightly. 

"Come on, Lennie, I'll take you home," Mike said, releasing him and taking a step towards his own car.

Lennie shook his head. "No. No, I need—I need you take me to McCoy's place. Someone has to tell him. It should be me."

*

Jack woke suddenly, momentarily uncertain as to why, and stared blearily at the clock. 1:34. He rolled over and reached out automatically, but found only emptiness on the other side of the bed.

"Right," he mumbled, as the pounding that had woken him resumed. 

He rolled out of bed, not surprised to see that he was still fully clothed. He had only the vaguest memories of coming home and passing out; he thought it impressive that he had even made it to the bed.

"'m comin'…" Jack shouted, stumbling over a pile of dirty laundry that blocked his uncertain path to the living room. 

"Did you forget your key, Claire?" he said as he fumbled with the locks and swung the door open.

He felt the expression on his face change when he saw that it wasn't Claire standing on his doorstep. He stared at the pair, puzzled by their presence, and leaned against the doorframe, holding the door open with one hand.

"Detective!" he said, blinking rapidly at the sight of Lennie Briscoe on his stoop. And beside him—"Mike Logan. Where's Curtis?"

"McCoy…Jack."

Jack cocked his head slightly at Briscoe's tone. Somewhere in the depths of his still-intoxicated brain, small alarm bells began to sound. He gripped the doorjamb a little tighter.

"It's Claire," Briscoe said. 

He swallowed and looked to the floor for a moment. Beside him, Logan drew a long breath. 

"What is it?" Jack asked. His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.

Raising his eyes to meet Jack's face, Briscoe said, "There was an accident..." 

He paused again, exhaling slowly, and Jack felt something freeze inside of him.

"She's dead, Jack. I—I'm so sorry."

Jack stared blankly at the two men for moment. For the first time in his life, he couldn't think. Everything had stopped. His mind. His heart. His breath. He found he could still move his body, and closed the door carefully. With his back to the door, he sank to the floor and buried his head in his hands. 

*

Logan stood silently beside his former partner as Lennie banged on McCoy's door. The ADA's muffled voice came through the door accompanied by the rattle of locks.

"Did you forget your key, Claire?" 

Mike gritted his teeth and he heard Lennie draw a sharp breath as the door finally opened to reveal a bleary-eyed, sleep-rumpled McCoy, a rakish half-smile on his face. 

"Detective!" McCoy exclaimed, the relieved welcome in his face fading to a wary confusion. His gaze fell on Mike, and the confusion intensified. "And Mike Logan. Where's Curtis?"

Mike felt a lump in his throat as Lennie shook his head slowly. 

"McCoy…" he said, his voice hesitant. "Jack."

McCoy drew back slightly, his face caught in the expression of consternation that had always reminded Mike of an indignant rooster. Mike forced himself to breathe evenly as Lennie mentioned Claire's name.

"What is it?" McCoy said, and it was clear to Mike that the older man was struggling for control. 

In a voice not his own, Lennie spoke again, stumbling over the words. "There was an accident…. She's dead, Jack. I—I'm so sorry."

The expression on McCoy's face was proof—not that Mike needed it—of the rumored relationship between Claire and McCoy. Jack stared at them for a moment with the eyes of a man whose world has crumbled, and then closed the door in their faces.

Logan covered his face with his hands and staggered a few steps away from McCoy's door to lean against the wall.

"Jesus Christ," he said. "What the hell went wrong with you all today?"

"Mickey Scott," Lennie said flatly.

Mike had almost forgotten that the execution had been today. Personally, Logan thought the bastard had gotten what he deserved, and he wished he could've been the one to catch him, if only to have had the opportunity to watch Scott die. But something in Lennie's face made him hold back these thoughts. 

"It got to you, huh?" 

Lennie shrugged. "It got to all of us a little, I think. We're supposed to be the good guys, Mike. But today, we helped kill a guy—even if he did deserve it."

Logan didn't understand, and he decided he probably couldn't even begin to. They stood in silence for a few moments, one on each side of McCoy's door, like sentinels.

"What was Claire doing at that bar in the first place?" Mike asked.

Lennie glanced at McCoy's door for a moment. "She, uh, she was there to pick up McCoy. He'd been calling her—all night, it sounded like. He left before she got there. He was…he wasn't happy that she hadn't shown."

Mike ground his teeth against a sudden rush of anger at McCoy. Rationally, he knew Jack wasn't to blame any more than Lennie was, but at the moment, he wasn't feeling especially inclined to be rational. He thought that Lennie was holding something back, but didn't press him. 

"Is he going to come out of there?" Mike asked finally.

"I think so. And I don't think we should leave him alone like this. You mind waiting?"

Mike shook his head. "Hey, you think you should call that partner of yours…Curtis?"

"Oh, God," Lennie groaned. "I didn't want to call Rey to come get me…I didn't want him to know how badly I screwed up…yeah, I suppose I'd better call him, when we get a chance. Someone should call Van Buren, too…gotta tell her what happened…"

"Here, use this."

Logan pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and offered it to Lennie.

Lennie took it and shook his head.   


"When did you start carryin' one of these things?" he asked.

"Christmas present from a girl I was seeing. Said she got tired of not being able to get a hold of me." Mike grinned as he remembered. "We broke it off, but I kept the phone. Comes in handy."

"What, for all the girls you never call?" Lennie snorted as he dialed Curtis's number. 

"Rey? Yeah, sorry to call so late…I've got some bad news…Claire Kincaid was killed tonight…drunk driver…yeah, we got the guy…no—I was in the car with her."

There was a long pause, and then Lennie finished, "I'm fine, Rey…no, don't come down. Mike Logan's here with me—he knew Claire pretty well…. We're at his place now…. Can you call Van Buren? Tell her I'll be in tomorrow…. Okay, I'll see you tomorrow, then…. Tell Deborah I'm sorry I woke her…. Thanks, Rey."

Lennie pressed the "end" button and handed the phone back to Mike, who asked, "Are you going to _work_ tomorrow?"

"I gotta, Mike," Lennie said, not looking at him. "I have to tell Van Buren what really happened. And…I can't just sit there alone all day, thinking about Claire…thinkin' about how I maybe could have saved her. Or how she'd be alive if I had just—"

Mike laid his hand on Lennie's shoulder, and, desperate for a new topic, blurted out, "Did your partner ask about McCoy?" 

"Yeah." Lennie huffed out a short laugh. "Do you suppose there was anyone who worked them who didn't know about McCoy and Claire?"

Mike just shook his head, his gut twisting at the thought of the two of them. He knew that a one-night stand, especially one that Claire had clearly regretted in the morning, did not give him the right to be jealous of McCoy, but that didn't stop him from being jealous all the same. 

He was jealous of his right to grieve openly. He clenched his jaw. She had been a friend, and he could grieve as a friend. One night did not make them lovers. He would not betray her memory to anyone, least of all McCoy.

He and Lennie sat quietly for a while, each lost in his own thoughts, until the rattle of McCoy's doorknob broke the silence. 

"Detectives?"

Mike turned, automatically answering to his former title, and realized with some shock that the rawness in McCoy's voice was due to tears. He had never pictured the prosecutor crying.

Lennie got to his feet and took a step towards the door. 

"Jack…" he said, his voice trailing off uncertainly.

McCoy moved to one side, holding the door open. 

"Come in," he said.

*

Jack wasn't sure how much time had passed before he managed to drag himself up. The first blinding shock of grief had passed, leaving him in a numb fog that permitted the execution of only the most basic tasks. He looked blankly around the apartment, not sure what he was looking for, then turned and opened the door. 

"Detectives?" 

His voice sounded raw, as though he had been crying. He reached up to rub his eyes, and discovered, to his surprise, that his fingers came away damp with the tears he hadn't known he had shed. Lennie and Logan turned, and Lennie got slowly to his feet.

"Jack…"

Jack clenched his teeth against the sudden stab of pain, and held the door open. 

"Come in."

They obeyed, Logan closing the door behind him as they milled uncertainly in the entryway. Jack waved his hand at the couch and sat down in the chair across from it.

"What happened?" he asked, when they finally sat. 

Lennie sighed, shaking his head. "She came to the bar after you left. Looking for you, I guess. I, uh—" he paused, swallowing visibly. "I had had a few. Since you weren't there, she offered me a ride home."

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You weren't there. Jack clenched one of his fists, his fingernails biting into his palm, as though the physical pain could drown out the memory of what he'd said. 

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To hell with her. 

An uncomfortable silence had settled in the room as soon as Lennie stopped speaking. Jack noticed Logan staring at the floor as though it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen, his shoulders tense. Later, Jack would wonder about the intensity of Logan's evasive gaze, but at that moment, it barely caught his notice. 

Lennie spoke again, finally, his voice still rough with emotion.

"They got the guy, Jack," he said. "I made sure they got him."

Jack nodded absently, processing this information. 

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He'll do time, he thought. _Adam will make sure of that._

He felt himself slipping into the familiar mindset of the prosecutor, and let the cold professionalism of the law wash over him. The law was a comforting shield against the raw emotions that enveloped him; he could do this, if he could just wrap himself in procedure.

"Has anyone notified her parents?" Jack asked.

Lennie glanced at Logan momentarily, then nodded. "Yeah. Coroner's office is taking care of that. But…I thought you should hear it from me."

"Thank you," Jack said. "I appreciate that." 

He realized then that Logan had yet to say a word. Jack had never seen him so quiet, and for the first time since he opened the door to find them on his doorstep, he wondered what Logan was doing there.

"Logan?"

He looked up, and Jack noticed that his eyes were red. 

"What are you doing here?"

"Lennie called me," Mike said slowly. "He needed someone to come get him. I drove over as soon as I heard."

Jack nodded, but then asked, "What about Curtis?"

"I couldn't face him right now," Briscoe replied. "I can't—he… It was just easier to call Mike."

Jack closed his eyes as he tried to imagine Rey Curtis's self-righteous morality in the face of this. Lennie was right. Curtis's disappointment in his partner would overshadow their shared grief, and Jack knew that neither he nor Lennie could take that right now. And Logan…Logan had known Claire longer than even Jack had. 

As though he could hear Jack's thoughts, Logan said, "Claire was a good friend…" His voice trailed off, as though he couldn't think of anything more to say. 

There was another weighted silence, then Lennie got slowly to his feet and looked down at Logan. 

"Mike, can you give me a ride home? The alcohol's wearin' off, and I'm starting to feel the accident."

"Yeah, of course, Lennie."

Logan turned to Jack, who rose and shook Logan's proffered hand. 

"I'm really sorry, Jack," Logan said. Some indefinable emotion passed briefly over his face, but was gone so quickly that Jack didn't catch its meaning. 

"Thank you," Jack said. 

Lennie didn't offer to shake his hand, and Jack wondered how long the detective would bear the weight of Claire's death with him. He showed them to the door, and watched as Lennie, who suddenly seemed decades older, walked slowly to the elevator. 

Jack sighed as he closed the door. Lennie would carry the guilt for years, but it wasn't Lennie's fault. It was his. 

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To hell with her.

He stared around his empty apartment, and the reality of her absence crashed down upon him. Gritting his teeth against further tears, he stumbled instead to the kitchen and poured himself a drink. He could forget for a few hours, at least. He could deal with it all in the morning.

*

After he saw Lennie safely up to his apartment, Logan sat in his car for several minutes, feeling rather lost. He wasn't ready to go back to Staten Island yet. He didn't want to face his empty apartment, go back to sleep, like none of this had happened.

Like Claire was still alive in Manhattan. 

He drove aimlessly for a while, but found himself pulling up across from McCoy's apartment. The light was still on. 

Some part of him wanted to go up there, share the grief of a man who was not and never had been a friend. 

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Right, he thought. _And what am I going to say? I fucked your dead girlfriend a few months back, so I know what you're going through right now._

He shook his head and glanced back up at the window. The light had gone out. But he didn't start the car, or make any move to go. Instead, he sat there until morning, his last memories of seeing Claire alive mingling with the image of her body bag. 

Only when the sky began to lighten with the first hint of sunrise did he start the car and leave. 

*

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Third Movement:

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Pie Jesu Domine,

dona eis requiem.

Her parents called Jack early the next morning, and he forced himself to tell them that he already knew. He went with them to identify the body; Claire's mother, a delicate blonde woman who looked nothing like her daughter, was almost catatonic. Her stepfather was little better, and Jack offered to make the arrangements for them. 

He went to her apartment to choose an outfit for her to be buried in; something professional—she would have liked that, he thought, and found he couldn't bring himself to leave. He wandered aimlessly through the tiny rooms, not touching anything. Just…looking. There was a picture of the two of them tacked to a bulletin board, and a lump grew in his throat at the sight of them in happier times. 

It was long after dark by the time he finally returned home to his cold, dark apartment. He didn't bother with the lights. Emotionally and physically drained, he threw himself down on the couch—he couldn't bear to sleep alone in the sheets that still smelled of her skin—and closed his eyes.

Sleep came slowly. He dreamed of Claire, but awoke throughout the night to her absence.

***

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Author's Notes

Eternal thanks and many, many pies to Kyllikki, the bestest beta and Latin-finder in the universe. She's the Ezra Pound to my T. S. Eliot. 

It's taken me two years to put this little monstrosity together, as I was continually interrupted by the minor distraction of earning my master's degree. Believe it or not, it started with a dream. That dream is the prologue. The rest of this story has had a long, strange journey from a story about Claire's funeral told by Lennie and Jack to the angst-fest you have in front of you. "The Cold Light of Dawn" changed a lot of things for me, this story most of all. 

Sixth and lastly, if the only thing you want to say in your review is "oh, lord, not another 'Aftershock' fic," don't bother reviewing. No, seriously. I've heard it. Save it. I know "Aftershock" has been done to death, but I've never done it before. 

Thanks for reading!

***

A note on the text and the Latin. "Dies Irae" is Latin for "day of wrath," or Judgement Day, and is a 13th-century hymn now a part of Requiem Masses. 

Loose translations of the epigraphs are as follows, courtesy of The Shrine of St. Jude: 

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First: I pray, suppliant and kneeling,  
a heart as contrite as ashes;  
take Thou my ending into Thy care.

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Second: Ah, that day of tears and mourning,   
From the dust of earth returning,   
Man for Judgment must prepare him—

Spare, O God, in mercy spare him.

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Third: Lord, Who didst our souls redeem,   
Grant a blessed requiem. Amen.


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